Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Last summer, I challenged readers to write a "burning house" poem: if your people and pets were safe, what would you rescue from your burning house? This was Stacy's poem, and I'm privileged to share it with you.

Pondering the Question

I.

If I had to
leave my home?

Evacuate.

Flee before
the flames,

Retreat from
the advancing wildfire.

To preserve
my life, my loved one’s lives.

What would I
take?

What would
be important to me?

Too
important to leave?

I have been
pondering the question.

Thinking.

Not of ID
and insurance,

Titles,
deeds and bank documents.

What
possessions do I need?

What
material goods?

What
objects? What things?

What stuff
do I need from my life to continue that life?

Well,
obviously, I will need my computer, my phone.

How could my
life as I know it continue if I lose all of my electronic information?

What else
would I have to take?

Photographs
of course!

All those irreplaceable
images and memories of people and places I love.

Captured on
paper and stored in boxes.

(Not
uploaded to digital format yet because I do not have the time)

Scrapbooks
and mementos of my life, I will need these.

My jewelry.

My Grandma’s
ring.

My Mom’s
favorite cross,

The one we
put on her for her funeral viewing.

The earrings
I have been collecting since High School.

Surely I
must have these precious items!

Would I have
time to get my books?

The ones I
paid retail for?

The ones
that were beloved gifts?

Thrift store
and library sale treasures bought on the cheap?

All of
those?

I have to
have my books!

To have my
own life still, after the fire, won’t I need my books?

Where do I
stop? Draw the line?

Do I take
all my clothes?

Coffee cups
and espresso maker?

Chef knife
and silicone spatula?

Art,
furniture, sheets and towels?

Where will
it end?

What do I
really need?

I have been
pondering the question.

Thinking
hard about my life.

Considering
what I need.

My life, my
loved one’s lives and maybe, just maybe, a file of important papers.

That is what
I need.

My life, my loved
one’s lives.

Really.

That is all
I need.

Not all I
would want,

Not all I
would hope to save.

But really,
all I would need.

II.

If I had to
leave my home?

Evacuate.

Flee before
the flames,

Retreat from
the advancing wildfire.

To preserve
my life, my loved one’s lives.

What would I
take?

What would
be important to me?

While
pondering the question,

Thinking
hard or in passing thoughts

I wonder.

What do I
really need?

I know my
computer, my phone, would ease the transition to a post fire life

My photos, mementos
and books would aid in continuity from my pre-fire life.

Art,
housewares, personal possessions would soften the move to a new place.

A new home. A
new life.

Pondering
the question and thinking of all my stuff.

Would I need
it? Have to have it?

The
possessions? Objects? Things?

Need? No.

Want? Yes.

Of course I
would want them.

Those
special treasures, those precious objects are links.

Tangible
links to people, places and times I love.

Physical
objects representing things I have done and seen and shared.

They
reinforce my memories, aid my recall,

Of those
people and places and actions that shaped me and my life.

These
emotionally weighted objects trigger a response in my brain

Connecting
me in my present to me in my past.

Losing these
tangible pieces of my life would be brutal.

Hard.

Devastating.

Yes. Losing
them would be devastating.

III.

Pondering
the question

I know that
if I had my life, my loved one’s lives

That I could
live without all the rest.

Yes. Thinking
hard I could lose it all.

Every object
big and small.

Every item
expensive or cheap.

Every thing
important or trivial.

I would
survive losing them all.

I would
mourn the loss.

But I would
survive.

Mostly I
would mourn the weakness this loss would generate in my memory chain.

Mourn the
vacuum, the gaps, the access to these precious clues.

Clues that
cement my life experiences to my person.

But, while
pondering the question,

When I think
of what I know, what I remember

How much
these memories are connected to objects,

How many
objects and their accompanying memories I have forgotten, shed or lost.

How in my
present,

I do not
know which objects will be memory lodestones for the future me.

I do not
know if objects will be memory lodestones for the future me.

I do not know
that the future me will have any memories.

I think
about how fragile memories are.

How easily
lost or broken.

That makes
me think of my Grandma.

Her loss of
memory.

Her loss of
Identity.

Her
inevitable loss of life.

She still
has the physical objects of her long and full life.

Her papers
and books, photos, art and household.

She has her
house but has lost her home.

This place
and these things no longer have any connection to her and her person.

The wildfire
of Alzheimer’s has burned them to ash.

Much like
her I have collected things,

Things I
plan to love and enjoy and the build a life with.

Pondering
the thought of losing my things and then extending the thought,

Facing the
possibility of losing even the basic knowledge of those I love.

Losing the
basic knowledge of who I am.

What would
be left? Anything?

Will she,
would I, in losing our things, our memories, our very identities

Lose
everything?

Pondering
that thought,

I do not
think so.

I hope that
we do not.

I have faith
that we do not!

I believe that
even though her memory has gone, that one day my memory may go

That in our
brains and bodies, our very cells,

That every
moment, experience and loved one is recorded and remembered.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

What the hell am I doinghugging a white man in an apron?I said it to myself--but out loud!--so thathe pushed me away slightly:What did you say?This was the first white man I had dated--though I was sixty!It wasn't only that I was holdinga body close for the first timein years; not onlythat he was white.Our mothers' fears and angers--heirlooms of slavery--had hardened my heart.Perhaps it was the apron. I had never imagineda white man (not a chef)come down to that order. Perhapsthe way he met me, beaming,opened wide,confounded my expectationsand undid me.How lovely his bodyas he bends to the wise tomatoes.What does blackand white have to do with it,our love that's lasted ten years?Each act of tendernessamends the violence of history.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

"It isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in
love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable,
wonderful everyday world with him that counts."

After a Noisy Night

The man I love enters the kitchen
with a groan, he just
woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.
A minty kiss, a hand
on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,
microwave. He collapses
on a chair, stunned with sleep,
yawns, groans again, complains
about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.
I want to tell him how
much he slept, how well,
the cacophony of his snoring
pumping in long wheezes
and throttles—the debacle
of rhythm—hours erratic
with staccato of pants and puffs,
crescendi of gulps, chokes,
pectoral sputters and spits.
But the microwave goes ding!
A short little ding! – sharp
as a guillotine—loud enough to stop
my words from killing the moment.
And during the few seconds
it takes the man I love
to open the microwave, stir,
sip and sit there staring
at his mug, I remember the vows
I made to my pillows, to fate
and God: I'll stop eating licorice,
become a blonde, a lumberjack,
a Catholic, anything,
but bring a man to me:
so I go to him: Sorry, honey,
sorry you had such a rough night,
hold his gray head against my heart
and kiss him, kiss him.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

In honor of A Month of Letters, I give you a poem about — you guessed it — a letter.

The Letter

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncertain window and the bare floorSpattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns, And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon.

Monday, February 11, 2013

My
explanation is — well, unimportant. Sure, I was traveling for the first
week. Then I came home and spent three days not writing any
correspondences.

Then the mail arrived Friday with a stack of letters.

I shall remedy that today.

How's
your postage holding up? Just checked out my first-class stamps and
discovered I own "forever" stamps. My postcard stamps, however, are in
need of penny stamps. Sigh. I'm terrible about picking up postage, which
is why I purchase a lot of postage at once (then proceed to not use it
in time and have to purchase penny stamps). And me with lots of photos
for photo postcards!

Don't be daunted. One letter every
day the mail is delivered is doable. If you're behind, grab a few
postcards to catch up! Use your favorite note cards. Your recipients
will be glad you did.

Have you found it a challenge
to pick up the pen? Decide who's on your hit list? Find postage? Locate a
mailbox? What has been your Achilles heel so far this month?

Thursday, February 7, 2013

I met a woman at the latest Alfie Boe concert that made me wonder if I'm getting too old and crochety to attend live music events.

The venue was general admission, and most people who sat in the very front of the theater had arrived early that morning to be first in line to choose their seats. My brother-in-law arrived an hour before the doors opened, and we chose seats immediately behind these fans for our party of seven.

Next to our table sat a woman entirely in black clothing — black jeans, black leather jacket, black blouse — with her long, brown hair clipped in barrettes down her back. She was hard to ignore from the start. This look was in contrast to others in the audience mostly wearing "office casual" clothes or outfits suitable for dining out in cold weather. (For the record, I was in blue jeans, a long-sleeved red sweater and black tennis shoes — or "trainers," as Alfie and his fellow Brits would call them. My husband was similarly dressed.)

The Lady in Black was pacing around the theater before the show, chatting up others along the stage. I figured she was among the "uber-fans" who lined the stage area and had attended the previous night's concert as well. Compared to these people, I was a Jane-come-lately, despite being a very enthusiastic fan who praises the talents of Alfie Boe to all within earshot.

When the lights went down and the musicians hit the stage, Lady in Black went wild. She jumped to her feet when a song began, waved her hands in the air, clapped enthusiastically and cheered vociferously. I was no slouch with my cheering and clapping; however, knowing the venue, I stayed in my seat, for the most part, so the three people behind me could see the performer on stage.

The Lady in Black was oblivious to anyone around her. Well, most of the time. During one of his rock song performances, she started flapping her arms and screaming to the people around her, "Stand up!" People told her to sit down. She looked at me and screamed, "Stand up!" I yelled back, "Enough!" (I heard my husband tell her to shut up.) She leaned over to me and yelled, "I'm with the band!" I replied in her ear through gritted teeth, "I don't care. Enough." She looked at me for a moment, then turned her attention to the others around her. Eventually, she took her seat again.

After the show, she interrupted my conversation to explain that, if they were in London, ten thousand people would have been on their feet, dancing. "I just felt bad for him," she said.

I thought: there are hundreds of people at this modest venue, many of whom queued up at 9 a.m. in freezing weather to see him. He was doing the things that made him the happiest (and, hopefully, making a decent wage doing so). And she felt bad for him because the audience, comprised in a large part of older public television viewers, wasn't on their feet in the non-existent aisles and blocking the view of the people behind them? Please. I didn't want to hear apologies, explanations or justifications. I just wanted her to finally leave me alone.

I told her simply her actions were distracting to the audience during the show. She apologized and left.

I'm not docile or quiet at a concert. I sometimes jump out of my seat when I hear a song I like, clap and cheer, sing along and join in the fray around me. The music is loud, the fans are happy and we're all there for a good time. However, anyone louder than the very amplified voice of the person on stage is too loud. I hope the Lady in Black remembers that at her next concert. I'll try to do the same.